


The Oldest Profession

by Graculus



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 16:24:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Graculus/pseuds/Graculus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Wall Street Crash puts an end to his family's success, one American is using what he has to survive in an unexpected locale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Illya Kuryakin stood by the wall watching the dancers move - some graceful and certain, others more tentative - his eyes fixed on one pair in particular. There were a number of professional dance partners here, their sinuous moves marking them out from the amateur, and the man who he studied was one of them.

"American," Detective Inspector Slate said, from where he stood beside Illya, "if I don't miss my guess."

Illya didn't respond, just carried on watching the dark-haired man, who was now laughing at something his partner had said. She smiled too, pleased to have garnered such a reaction, from the way she blushed a little at the same time. The man - Solo, wasn't that his name? - was attentive to her every word, every inch the gentleman. Every inch the paid companion, according to the gossip that sped round this particular seaside hotel. 

The couple separated when the music was over, Solo bowing over the woman's hand and making her smile once more, then pressing a kiss to the back of it as he made his farewells. 

He was good, Illya had to grant him that. Solo might do this for a living, but he made it look effortless, natural. 

The two of them followed Solo out of the ballroom, trailing him down a carpeted corridor and out into the fitful autumn sunlight. A few paces ahead of them, Solo pulled his jacket a little tighter around himself in response to a gust of wind from the sea and Illya was suddenly grateful for his own overcoat, even if he had been born and bred in colder climes than these. 

"Mr Solo?" Slate called out, when they were some distance from the hotel. "Could we have a word, please?"

Solo turned, his face an inquiry, though Illya could tell he was sizing them up; whatever he did for a living now, this man had experience of assessing whether he was in trouble, which was interesting in itself. Where would a man like this, all smooth hands and slicked back hair, gain that kind of an understanding?

"And you are?" The voice was much as he'd expected it would be, a soft approximation of the Hollywood tones of a dozen leading actors. Not Solo's own, Illya would be prepared to put money on it, though he couldn't have said how he knew. "I'm afraid my dance card is full for the next few hours." The smile was more real, somehow, and Illya decided there and then that he could have liked this man, if they'd met under different circumstances. 

"Detective Inspector Slate," Slate said, showing his warrant card. "And this is Mr Curry."

Solo's intelligent brown eyes were fixed on him now, taking in what Slate had said about his own rank and what he hadn't said about his companions. No fool, this American. 

"Not police, then?" Solo asked, his eyes still on Illya. He cocked his head to one side, considering. "Something else?" His accent changed, before Illya could realise what was happening. "Something hush hush we don't talk about?" 

"Precisely," Illya said. "Though of course if I were to confirm that officially, I would then have to kill you."

Solo raised his hands.

"Don't shoot, guv, it's a fair cop," he said, in the most appalling mock-Cockney Illya had ever heard. Solo's smile widened when he saw Illya wince at the awfulness of the accent. "Sorry," he continued, lowering his hands and returning to his original accent. "Couldn't help myself."

Illya nodded, all the forgiveness Solo was going to get, but he seemed pleased to have it anyway. 

"This is just a quiet word, Mr Solo," Slate said. His voice was quiet, but still full of a certainty that Illya knew all three of them heard. "You've been associating with a certain lady here, the mother of a certain Member of His Majesty's Government."

"I'm a professional dancing partner, Detective Inspector," Solo said. "It's what I do."

"Let me finish," Slate said, distinctly unimpressed. Solo shrugged, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets as Slate continued. "You will leave this particular lady well alone. Ideally, you'll leave this hotel and find yourself somewhere else, if you know what's good for you."

"Or else?"

"Or else," Slate said. 

\--------------------------

There was something about Solo's easy acceptance of being warned off that didn't quite sit right with Illya; he made it his business to be certain about everything. His life so far had taught him things were simpler that way. 

On receiving Slate's ultimatum, Solo had just nodded once and headed back towards the hotel. Somehow, Illya was sure it wouldn't be that easy. He gave Solo a head start, letting him enter the hotel lobby. A few quiet words had Detective Inspector Slate heading for his car, back to headquarters and a well-deserved supper. Illya had other fish to fry. 

The ballroom was busier now, the room filling with a new set of women for the professional dancing partners to charm, including one particular lady who he hoped he wouldn't see with a certain American. Unless that American had a death wish, of course, and wished to see just how sincerely the British government wanted to be taken seriously. 

Illya found himself a position, shaded by a large parlour palm in an ornate brass pot, where he could see but not be seen, and watched the dance floor intently. After a moment, he saw Solo, standing by the side of the dance floor. As Illya had suspected would be the case, he was not alone - a gloved hand rested on Solo's sleeve, the hand of that self-same lady he had been warned to leave alone only minutes earlier. 

Solo's head was lowered; he was clearly listening intently to whatever it was this lady had to say, and Illya wondered just what that something was. If Solo knew who it was with whom he spent time, as Illya was certain was the case, then he had to know that her son was high up in the Foreign Office. It didn't look good for Mr Solo, regardless of what he was being told by the lady in question. 

After what seemed like an eternity, Solo patted the woman's hand where it still lay on his arm and she reluctantly removed it, allowing him to leave her side. Illya didn't follow immediately, letting Solo get halfway to the ballroom door before he followed. As it was, he was just in time to see Solo cross the lobby and disappear through another door, one marked 'Staff Only'. 

Cursing to himself in Russian for his caution, Illya followed suit; ignoring the sign on the door, he found himself in a dimly-lit corridor, bare wooden floorboards echoing under his feet. It was only as he turned the corner, certain he was heading into the back of the hotel, towards the kitchens, that he realised he was no longer alone. 

Solo was quick, Illya had to give him that - he found himself pressed against the wall, Solo's body leaning heavily into him, one muscular thigh inserted between his own. One of Solo's hands had covered his mouth, the other quickly relieving him of his gun before he could protest. 

"Looking for me?" Solo asked. He gave the gun - a standard issue Webley - a quick glance and then stowed it in his jacket pocket. Illya didn't squirm, biding his time till the opportunity arose to turn the tables on his captor. "What's a nice boy like you doing all alone in a place like this?"

Illya glared at him, his temper rising when he saw Solo's grin widen. Something else was reacting too, responding to the warmth of Solo's body pressed against him, the thigh pressed against his groin, despite Illya's best efforts to control himself. 

"Temper temper," Solo said, then removed his hand from Illya's mouth. "Before you say it, I'll have you know my parents were married long before I was born."

"Didn't we tell you to keep away from her?" Illya heard his voice, a low growl full of menace that made Napoleon's eyes widen. 

"I take it all back," Napoleon said, stealing a glance downwards. "You're not a nice boy at all." He shifted his weight, allowing his thigh to rub against Illya's groin deliberately, once, then again. "And I had to say my goodbyes, like a gentleman."

The other man was hard too, Illya realised, as Solo moved against him, the movement as slow and tantalising as any tango. Both of them reacting the same way to the current situation, regardless of the danger in which that placed them, here and now. 

"You're no gentleman," Illya said, "you're a..."

"It's a living," Solo replied, interrupting. "Though I have other talents." He smiled, then leaned forward, capturing Illya's mouth for a kiss that made the universe turn inside out. 

"I bet you do," Illya replied, once he had got his breath back. 

\--------------------------

There was something about the smug expression on Solo's face that made Illya want to punch him, though that would have been difficult given their current positions. He couldn't deny the obvious, which was that he found Solo - or at least the presence of another warm, hard body rubbing against his - arousing enough to contemplate something illicit in this depressing corridor. That in itself was upsetting enough to Illya's equilibrium, given that he had never thought of himself as overly driven by his libido. 

"Shall we take this somewhere a little more private?" Solo asked, his smug expression still firmly in place. 

"Don't trouble yourself on my account," Illya replied. 

He was quite pleased at how cold his voice sounded, given that he was desperately trying to get himself under control - Illya wondered how much of that battle was obvious to Solo. In any other circumstances, there was nothing he might have liked more than to take the American up on his offer, but he was still technically on duty and Solo was still technically a suspect. 

"Oh, it's no trouble," Solo said. "None at all." But still, he took a step back, letting go of Illya's wrists as he did so, though his expression was wary now. He obviously expected some kind of retaliation on Illya's part, one way or another. "See, I can play nice."

"Nice enough to return my gun?" Illya asked, holding out his hand. It remained empty for a long moment, before Solo shrugged and then extracted the Webley from his pocket and placed it on Illya's palm. "Thank you, Mr Solo." Illya replaced the gun in its holster, then turned his attention back to Solo. "Now, if you could tell me what you're doing here..."

Solo had lowered his hands, shoving them back into his trouser pockets without any concern about how that looked, given that he was half-hard. Illya had to steel himself not to check out just what Solo was doing and concentrate on the job at hand, namely discovering exactly what Solo was up to. 

"When you interrupted me," Solo began, "I was collecting my belongings so I could do as you and Slate told me." 

"You were leaving?" Illya could tell when Solo heard the scepticism in his voice, even as he heard it himself. "Of course you were."

Solo shrugged, staring down at the toes of his thin-soled dancing shoes, which had clearly seen better days despite their immaculate polish. 

"Why shouldn't I get the hell out of Dodge?" he asked. "Even if I've done nothing to be ashamed of, unless you count giving an old lady some pleasure a crime."

Illya tried not to take these words on face value, not liking the idea that Solo's enterprise with the admiring females of his acquaintance extended beyond the dance floor. He was no innocent himself, of course, but the thought of anyone being reduced to something they probably didn't want because of lack of money was an unappealing one. It had only been good fortune, after all, that had ensured his own family had a degree of wealth to fall back on when they fled the Bolsheviks, otherwise he too might be in a similar position to Solo right now. 

"Fine," Illya said, after a long silence had grown between them. 

He dug into his pocket, pulling out a silver case - Illya could sense Solo watching his movements out of the corner of his eye, though he pretended to still be fascinated by the toes of his shoes, even as he extracted a card from the case. 

"That's my telephone number," Illya said, holding the card out to Solo, who slowly removed a hand from his pocket so he could take it. 

He wasn't completely sure what had prompted this gesture, other than a sudden sense of the possibility he and Solo were more alike than he cared to think, despite the American's flippancy. Certainly Illya had no intention of another liaison like the abortive one that had almost happened here. That could never be countenanced, given his line of work.


	2. Chapter 2

After their encounter in the hotel, Illya had hung around for a couple of days but seen no sign of Solo since their encounter. It seemed the American had taken him and Slate at their word, doing as he'd said he planned to do, packing up and heading off for pastures new. There were, after all, plenty of places like this along the south coast of England, hotels filled with elderly and moderately unhappy matrons with more money than sense. 

It was almost the end of the summer season, anyway, and as he headed back to London Illya couldn't help wondering what a man like Solo did when the majority of the hotels closed down for the winter. He could probably get some work as a waiter, if he wanted, but his surfeit of charm would doubtless be an obstacle when it came to many, more respectable, lines of work. 

As the weeks passed, Illya forgot about Solo, other than a passing thought if he saw someone who reminded him of the American. Autumn had arrived with a vengeance by now, the dusk drawing in earlier and earlier, not helped by what seemed like an endless succession of rainy days. London could be a grey city, at the best of times, and this weather didn't help at all.

When the telephone rang, Illya didn't recognise the voice at first. But then it was a bad line and the voice wasn't one he had expected ever to hear again. 

"I think someone's following me."

"Who is this?" Illya asked. "Solo?"

"Right first time," Solo replied. "Did you miss me?"

Illya decided to ignore the sally and return to Solo's first comment - it was probably safer that way.

"You said someone's following you?" he asked. "Are you in London?"

"Two out of two," Solo said. He coughed, the sound muffled. "I keep seeing the same guy, though he tries not to be seen."

Illya thought for a moment. He hadn't known where Solo was, and he was confident Slate would have told him if he'd discovered Solo's location – there was no reason for anyone from the Security Service to be following Solo without Illya's knowledge so there was a reasonable chance that something suspect was going on.

"Where are you?" Illya asked, wondering just where he'd put the keys to his car. 

It took about 20 minutes to get to Solo's location, the traffic heavier than Illya had expected because of the bad weather; Solo had shown some enterprise, at least, by making sure he was somewhere that was busy and well-populated while he waited for Illya to arrive. Then again, Illya reasoned, as his car turned into the road in front of King's Cross railway station, if the aim of the tail was a kidnapping then they probably would have had ample opportunity to make a move before now. 

He slowed the Morgan, letting it coast along by the edge of the pavement, eyes sharp for the slightest movement that would tell him where Solo was. It was a miserable night, a light rain falling that seemed to soak everything and everyone by sheer persistence alone, and there were plenty of people huddled for shelter under the entrance to the station. After a moment, however, one shape separated from the mass and headed towards the car. It was Solo, though the man couldn't have been further from the urbane sophisticate that Illya had last seen - hair flattened against his head and overcoat sodden and dark with rain. 

"Get in," Illya said; he put the Morgan into gear and accelerated away almost before the passenger door was shut. 

Beside him, Solo was silent, which was a first and seemed uncharacteristic, even given their short acquaintance. Illya kept an eye out in the side mirror for any signs of pursuit, but as far as he could tell they weren't being followed. Even under the light of passing street lamps, Illya could tell that Solo was soaked to the skin, the material of his trousers clinging to every curve of his legs, his shoes squelching out water into the carpet of the foot well. 

"When did you first notice you were being followed?" Illya asked, returning his eyes to the road. 

It took a moment for Solo to answer, the first thing out of his mouth being another cough, a rattling sound that made Illya wince a little even as he concentrated on driving. 

"Day before yesterday," Solo replied. "I hope he doesn't do that for a living."

There was silence between them for the rest of the journey back to Illya's home - it was only as he made the final turn into the small mews where he kept his car that Illya wondered whether he would have been better taking Solo to see Mark Slate, but it was too late now. Even if he wanted to venture out into the inclement weather again, Solo's muffled coughing told Illya more than he wanted to know about the condition the American was in. Like it or not, it seemed that Solo was to be his responsibility for the foreseeable future. 

\--------------------

In a matter of minutes they were in Illya's living room. Solo stood in the doorway for a moment, looking more than a little dazed, even just the short flight of stairs from the street enough to tire him out. After a moment Illya steered him towards the fireplace and pushed him down to sit on a nearby chair.

"Give me your coat," he said, then moved to undo the buttons himself when Solo's didn’t respond.

After a moment the other man's fingers fumbled at the buttons as well, icy cold and mostly ineffectual – between them they somehow managed to get the coat off, its wool as sodden and heavy as Illya had suspected would be the case, the suit it covered barely less soaked. Illya left Solo by the fireside and headed into the bathroom, dropping the overcoat into the tub for the time being in lieu of anywhere it wouldn't make an almighty mess, and then went into his bedroom to get some blankets.

"Now the rest," he said, when he returned to the living room, his arms full. The American hadn't moved, still staring into the flames of the fire as if mesmerised. "Solo." Speaking his name had the hoped-for effect, making Solo at least look at him, a small smile creeping across his face. Illya dropped the blankets by Solo's feet.

"I'm not that kind of boy, you know," Solo said, then turned his attention back to the fire as if those few words had exhausted him.

Illya snorted.

"You flatter yourself, Solo," he said. "My only interest in getting your clothes off is to prevent you dying of pneumonia in my living room." He took a moment to study Solo, wondering where to begin if his unwanted guest wasn't in a position to help look after his own well-being as much as he ought. Solo's trouser legs were already starting to steam as a result of his proximity to the fire; the unmistakeable smell of damp wool had begun to permeate the room. "Take off your shoes," Illya said, not expecting the American to follow suit, as he started to undo the buttons of Solo's suit jacket.

Illya was peeling the heavy fabric off the American's shoulders when there was the first thump of a shoe hitting the ground, toed off rather than untied, then its fellow joined it by the fireside. Beneath the jacket, the fine material of Solo's shirt clung to every line of his body, each muscle and joint delineated.

The shirt buttons were tiny, fiddly mother of pearl that had seen better days; Solo's shirt had been expensive once, its owner a man of means. Or it could have been bought second-hand, Illya reminded himself as he knelt to tackle the buttons, even stolen from someone's washing line. The thought of Solo sneaking through the laundry in search of something stylish enough to suit him made Illya smile despite himself.

He was halfway through undoing Solo's shirt when Solo kissed him - not the masterly expertise of their encounter in the hotel corridor, this was just a fumbling brush of his mouth across Illya's jaw. Solo had got hold of his jacket too, holding him in place as his mouth mapped Illya's neck, whose hands were still frozen in mid-movement on the wet placket of Solo's shirt. Illya felt his libido sit up and take notice, despite the ineptness of Solo's actions, his traitorous memory reminding him just what else they could do, the possibilities that had been left untouched but not unimagined last time.

"Thank you," Solo said, after a moment, his fingers uncurling as he leant back a little to allow Illya the space to undo the rest of his shirt buttons. "For taking me in."

Illya glanced up at Solo's face, taking in his expression and the look in his eyes at a glance before he turned his attention back to the shirt - his fingers brushed across soft skin beneath the wet material, his imagination kicking in as he wondered just what that skin would feel like warm and dry. Preferably warm, dry and in Illya's bed, if his libido had anything to do with it. Which he knew would be an incredibly bad idea. 

Illya mentally shook himself, as he undid the last of Solo's recalcitrant buttons and the shirt slid off his shoulders and puddled onto the seat of the chair behind him. Remember what he does for a living, Illya told himself; you're not some foolish old maid to be charmed by a smile and a kiss into doing whatever he wants, regardless of the consequences.

"You need to stand up," Illya said; he tamped down on his libido, not responding to Solo's words or to the banked heat he'd seen in the American's eyes. There was nothing he could say, after all, that wouldn't get him into more trouble than he was already in - at least nothing immediately came to mind - so it was better to change the subject completely. "Here," he continued, picking up one of the blankets from where he'd dropped them. "Put this round you."

Illya busied himself with picking up Solo's jacket, shirt and shoes - they joined the overcoat in the bathtub for lack of a better place to keep them while he could make arrangements for them to dry. By the time he returned to the living room, Solo was stretched out on the couch in front of the fire, both blankets wrapped around him and his discarded trousers hung over the back of the chair. Only the top of his head was visible, his slow and steady breathing telling Illya that any further conversation would have to wait.

\-------------------

He was tired, almost as tired as Solo seemed to be, but that didn't stop Illya's mind from racing. A significant part of the current subject of his thoughts currently slept on his couch, while another waited somewhere out there in the London night - who had been following Solo and why? What did they want from him? And, come to that, what _had_ Illya been thinking when he'd brought the American back to where he lived? 

He couldn't deny there was a baser element to the whole situation when it came to decisions involving the American - the thought of Solo being in his debt did something to Illya's libido that he didn't even want to contemplate. It was as if the moments they'd shared in that dingy hotel corridor had somehow tied the two of them together, bound with cords of mutual desire that Illya couldn't resist, even if he wanted to. There was little doubt that he'd instinctively responded to that desire when Solo had telephoned, without thinking of the consequences for either of them. 

The legal complications alone would hardly be worth bearing. He had his career to think of, not to mention the very real possibility of criminal charges – not for what they had done so far, thank God, but for what Illya would very much _like_ to do to the man currently asleep on his couch, that was most definitely against the law. He was hard now, thinking back to those stolen moments at the hotel, then to barely minutes earlier when the heat of Solo's mouth had forged a trail across his skin, even inept and half-awake. 

Glad he was now in the solitude of his own bedroom, Illya shoved down his pyjama pants, taking himself in hand as he lay back against the pillows and closed his eyes, thinking about Solo's mouth. That half-present smirk seemed to come so easily to mind, not to mention the wet heat of the American's tongue, or the thought of how his lips would feel wrapped around another part of Illya's anatomy altogether.

Just imagining it, the thought of indulging his curiosity about just how talented Solo's tongue might be at all sorts of things, was enough to make Illya ache with need. He tightened his grip, though it was a poor substitute for the real thing, the reality of the tightness of another body, the thought of taking Solo there on the couch, right where he currently slept. The American would be half-awake, fingers curling to grip the edge of the cushions white-knuckled as Illya pressed into him, insistent, his legs spreading unconsciously as he bucked up to meet the invasion. 

Illya could imagine the sounds Solo would make; Solo's sweat-slick back would press hotly against his chest, his skin salty beneath Illya's questing tongue. Would he cry out, urging Illya on, or just mewl wordlessly at the steady pressure, the push and slide of Illya's cock in his arse? Just the thought of Solo's voice, the words he might speak – would he protest Illya's actions or beg for more? - was enough to take Illya over the edge, curling in on himself as his climax struck, pearls of seed painting their way across his abdomen, his hand, the sheets. 

Illya's mind whirled, the fantasy still firmly in place in the aftermath - Solo would be hard still, his own climax yet to come at Illya's behest alone, and Illya's cock would soften in him, his hand gripping Solo's erection and milking it ruthlessly till the American came, shuddering around him. 

Illya's head hit the pillow with a thump, his breath still rasping even as he reached to the bedside table and caught hold of a handkerchief. It was the work of a moment to clean himself up, the actions second nature, as he listened to the way his heart threatened to batter its way from his chest. The only question, it seemed, was this: if the fantasy was so good, how could the real thing ever compete?


	3. Chapter 3

When he woke and padded through, barefoot, to the living room to check on his guest, Illya found Solo still bundled up in the blankets. He didn't seem to have moved during the night, his tousled hair still the only part of him that Illya could see emerging from its cocoon. 

Illya lit the stove and moved the kettle onto the burner, then returned to the living room to light the fire, which had died during the night. Even the sound of him raking out the ashes didn't make Solo stir; after he had replaced the ashes with fresh kindling, then coal, before lighting it once more, Illya crossed over to the couch. 

Uncertain of how Solo would respond to being woken in an unfamiliar place, Illya carefully peeled back the edge of one of the blankets till he could see skin - in this case, Solo's forehead - and equally carefully rested his hand on it. Solo was warm, hotter than even the self-made cocoon should have managed to make him, which meant it was likely he'd caught a slight chill from his jaunt through London the previous evening. 

"Solo," Illya said, taking a firmer hold of the blanket and tugging at it gently, unsure just how it was wrapped around the American. "Wake up."

"What?" Solo's head emerged from the blankets, brown eyes blinking at him with no sign of recognition. "Where..." He stopped after those words, clearly more aware of his circumstances now. "It wasn't a dream, then?"

Despite himself, Illya couldn't help the grin that he was sure slipped onto his face at both the question and the querulous tone in which Solo had asked it. 

"Which part of last night do you mean?" Illya continued to pull at one of the blankets till Solo squirmed into an almost-upright position. "Being followed, getting as wet as if you'd gone for a swim in the Thames, or ending up here?" 

"All of it, I guess." Solo looked more awake now, at least in terms of knowing where he was. "I didn't do anything... embarrassing, did I?"

Illya was severely tempted to give Solo the complete run-down of just what he had done, even though it seemed the American had no memory of it - perhaps it had just been a reflex reaction, after all? - but the better part of his nature won out. 

"Unless you count snoring like a steam train on my couch," Illya said, instead. 

"I don't snore," Solo said, firmly. He swung his feet to the floor, one of the blankets dropping away as he moved, the other still swathed around his lower body. 

Illya had to make himself look away from the expanse of well-muscled flesh the movement exposed, reminding himself that he'd been quite able to resist when the self-same body had been cold and goose-fleshed the previous evening so nothing had changed. Nothing except the mother and father of all erotic fantasies fuelling his own self-abuse, of course, a real-life performance of which was becoming more likely as the morning wore on if Illya didn't hold himself in check. 

"You're running a slight temperature," Illya said, as he headed back into the kitchen. The whistle of the kettle had rescued him, at least, from ogling the American like a lovestruck girl. Anyone would think he'd never seen a half-naked man before, the way his libido was reacting to the sight of Solo half-wrapped in a blanket on his couch. "I've got some aspirin in the bathroom cabinet, help yourself."

"Speaking of which..." Solo's voice came from the kitchen doorway, closer than Illya had expected, and it took all his self-control not to jump at the sound of it and splash boiling water everywhere. 

"First door on the left," Illya replied, without looking round from the teapot he was filling and unreasonably proud of himself for doing so.

\-------------------

"Are those my clothes in the tub?" Solo asked, when Illya came back into the living room with a tray. The American was doing up his trousers, which had dried overnight by the fire, though his torso was still bare, as were his feet. "I guess you're stuck with me for a while."

"It could be worse," Illya said, putting the tray down on a small table beside the couch then helping himself to a slice of toast. "Depending on who was following you last night."

"You know, I never had this kind of trouble till I met you and Slate," Solo pointed out, sitting down on the couch once more. He helped himself to some tea, then pulled a face when he tasted it. "You could strip paint with that," he said, putting the cup back onto the table. 

"Sorry, force of habit." Illya hadn't taken his guest's palate into account when he made the tea - he always made the first pot strong for himself, the way his babushka had made it in the mornings, forgetting that not everyone had Russian taste-buds. "It looks as though someone thinks you know something, Mr Solo."

Solo nodded, his mouth now full of toast and jam, the speedy way in which he was eating surely testament to how his past few weeks had been. 

"So," Illya said, settling back into his chair and watching Solo eat. "What is it that you know, Mr Solo?"

Solo swallowed, half-reaching for the cup of tea to wash the last mouthful down before he clearly remembered how strong it had been and changed his mind. He sat back on the couch, pulling the blanket back round himself with one hand as he did so, his eyes still on Illya. 

"Nothing," he replied. "Really."

His declaration would probably have been more believable, Illya decided, if it hadn't been for the look in Solo's eye as he made it, not to mention the way he was now carefully licking the last traces of jam from his fingers. His eyes remained on Illya as he did so, as if expecting a reaction, so Illya schooled himself not to respond, even though his libido was reminding him of both his previous night's fantasy and what other things that talented tongue might possibly do for Illya, given half a chance. 

"Then I think the best thing to do," Illya said, forcing his mind back to business though it took some effort, "is to find out just who is following you and why. And for that, we're going to need a little assistance."

\-----------------------

Illya made more toast first, taking one slice for himself then leaving the rest for Solo while he went into his study to make some telephone calls. He closed the door between the two rooms, almost against his better judgement - he disliked the idea of leaving Solo alone in the living room but what alternative did he have if he didn’t want Solo knowing everything? Besides, he'd left the man in there all last night unsupervised so what more damage could he possibly do?

The first call was to Inspector Slate, asking for his best man to cover the entrance to the building so that he and Solo could flush out the man who'd been following the American. If any such man existed, of course. The second call was to someone significantly less salubrious with instructions to obtain a set of clothing for Solo from his lodgings; it had taken some persuasion before Solo had given up the address, writing it down in an almost-illegible scrawl of pencil. 

In hindsight, Illya wasn't surprised Solo had been so reticent – the address he'd provided was in a dubious area, to say the least, and it was a minor miracle Solo hadn't already had his throat slit by someone who wanted to steal his shoes. 

He opened the study door quietly, its hinges deliberately kept well-oiled for just that purpose. Across the living room, Solo was no longer seated on the couch but was examining the contents of one of Illya's bookcases, fingers running lightly along the wood of the shelf rather than on the leather-bound spines themselves, to Illya's great relief. 

Illya paused in the doorway for a moment, studying Solo just as the American was studying the books. He'd left the blanket draped over the back of the couch - the room was warm now the fire had properly kindled, warm enough for Solo to comfortably go without a shirt and barefoot, given the good quality carpet Illya had insisted on. Illya's eyes were drawn to the expanse of skin thus revealed, well-muscled back and curve of hip alike framed by the waistband of Solo's trousers and the way the material stretched tautly across his arse. 

Illya had always been discreet before. There had been liaisons, of course, but none of the men who Illya had been involved with had ever come here, to where Illya actually lived - there were anonymous hotel rooms enough in London for that kind of thing. There was something different about Solo, even as he piqued Illya's interest in more ways than one, something that made Illya break from his usual routine without a second thought. 

It couldn't be just physical, Illya was certain of that, although the physical aspect was one to which he had given considerable thought since he and Solo had first crossed paths. He was no more susceptible to a handsome face combined with an empty head than the next man, and whatever you might say about Solo, he clearly wasn't stupid. 

"What brought you to England, Mr Solo?" Illya asked. He couldn't help smiling a little at the way Solo didn't even react when Illya spoke. He was reaching out for a particular volume, his fingers just brushing its spine, and the movement to take the book from its place continued smoothly despite the fact that Solo could not have known before that he was being watched. "Aren't you a long way from home?"

"An unexpected turn of events," Solo said, opening the book he had selected, his attention still fully on the bookshelf in front of him. "Plans for my life with which Wall Street chose not to cooperate in the longer term."

Illya nodded, even though the gesture went unseen by Solo. He wouldn't have been the first man ruined by the stock market crash, all his hopes destroyed in a matter of hours. It could have been close for the Kuryakins too, had they not had the foresight to invest heavily in gold and always keep a little something for the next time they needed to beat a hasty retreat - something to thank the Bolsheviks for, it seemed. 

"I was at Oxford, doing post-graduate work," Solo said, his fingers turning each page with a reverence that both underlined and confirmed his story in Illya's mind. Only a scholar, a lover of books, would treat one that lovingly. "But who'd employ an economist whose father blew his brains out after he bankrupted the family firm?"

"You never wanted to go back to the States?" Illya asked, sitting down where he'd sat before. Something instinctively told him that was the best move to make, that he should give Solo the space to tell his story, once and for all. Here, where he could pretend to be more interested in the book he held than the words he spoke, even if that could never be true. 

"My mother returned to her family in Boston when it all fell apart. I didn't want their charity, so I changed my name and tried to figure out how I could put bread on the table - fortunately, I had other talents to rely upon besides purely academic ones." Solo laughed, closed the book and looked down at its cover, the fingers of one hand moving to trace the coat of arms embossed on its fine calfskin. "Though not particularly profitable ones, as I soon discovered."

Illya stood, then crossed over to the couch and picked up Solo's discarded blanket, folding it to give himself a chance to figure out what to say next when it was clear Solo was done with confiding.

"I've sent someone to pick up some clothes for you," Illya said, finally."Then we can see if we can flush out the man who's following you."

That had to be a safer subject by far than the information Solo had shared - not that this was even his real name, it seemed. There was a part of Illya that wanted to talk too, to share some similar kind of information about himself even though this was a man he still knew little about, but he quashed that impulse decisively. He might be drawn to this man in ways he couldn't explain, but that didn't justify throwing over years of caution that had saved his life on more than one occasion. 

Illya looked down at his hands, clenched on the wool of the blanket he held. What else could he do? His only other impulse where Solo was concerned was decidedly a physical one, his fingers itching instead to trail across that expanse of skin, trace every line of muscle on the American's body. No good could come of giving in to such temptation, no good at all.


	4. Chapter 4

Solo replaced the book on the shelf, fingers lingering on its spine for a moment. Illya wondered if he was aware of his scrutiny after all, if was used to being the centre of attention or whether he was oblivious to it all. Surely that was one of the curses of being a handsome man, to be so used to being the focus of everyone's interest that it became commonplace, overlooked?

"I haven't thanked you for coming to my rescue," Solo said. He'd turned, leaning back against the bookshelf. Illya made himself focus on the American's face; Solo's smile was a wry one, one that said he was fully aware how the comment sounded but planned on saying it regardless. "I wasn't sure if you would."

The room seemed much smaller to Illya now Solo's attention was centred on him rather than the contents of his library. It would be easy to beat a hasty retreat to his study, leaving Solo to the books until his clothes arrived and they could leave, but Illya knew that would be a mistake. This was, after all, his flat and therefore he should be the one deciding what happened next. 

"You thanked me last night, Solo.” And wordlessly offered other things in payment for any debt, Illya's traitorous libido reminded him - he squashed the thought, deliberately thinking of anything other than the fantasy to which he'd masturbated, its intimate details of just how Solo could have repaid him for his hospitality. 

Solo returned to the couch and sat, leaning back till his head was resting on its back, his sharp brown eyes never leaving Illya as he did so. He looked incredibly relaxed; it was hard to believe he was the same man who'd been so damp and dishevelled the previous night, his legs now stretched out as if he'd occupied that particular place in Illya's living room a thousand times. 

“I don't make a habit of bringing men back here, if that's what you're wondering," Illya continued, his words getting an immediate response from Solo, whose smile had widened a little at the waspish tone Illya knew he'd failed to suppress. "Or women either, come to that."

From the study, the telephone rang, its imperious clamour cutting short whatever response Solo would have made to that statement. Illya dropped the blanket he had been holding onto the arm of the couch, aware that Solo had got up from the couch and was following him. He didn't bother to turn around. 

"The man's in place," Slate's voice said, without any preamble, when Illya picked up the receiver.

Out of the corner of his eye, Illya could see Solo examining the walls of the study; his glance across the photographs that hung there was apparently a casual one but Illya was certain he was giving them much more scrutiny than any casual observer would. If nothing else, Solo struck him as a man who'd pick up the smallest of details, including those someone else didn't want him to see - that was stock in trade for the kind of business the American had found himself in. In that way, at least, they were two of a kind.

Illya moved, turning till he was leaning his weight against the edge of the desk so he could watch Solo. He didn't really think the American would steal from him - he only had his trouser pockets to fill if he decided to do so, after all - but there were certainly things in here that could be easily stolen later and pawned if his visitor had that intent.

When the conversation was finally over and he could hang up the phone on Slate's muttered goodbyes, Illya didn't move and found himself studying the line of Solo's back once more. The other man's ribs were a little more prominent than they should be, mute evidence that he'd missed more than one meal in recent weeks, but other than that the American was in excellent shape. It had to be, of course, an occupational requirement for any professional dancing partner, along with a couple of good suits and a clever line in dialogue, the latter probably stolen directly from whatever Hollywood films Solo had happened to catch. The convenient American accent probably didn’t hurt, either, when it came to the ladies.

"Now we just need your clothes," Illya said, "then we can see if leaving here will make your tail show himself."

Solo didn't respond, appearing not to have heard a single word Illya had said to him; his attention seemed taken up by two photographs that hung side by side on the wall across from the door. From where he stood, Illya couldn't see what it was about them that had Solo so interested; he couldn't help himself, crossing over to where the American stood and standing behind him, maybe a little closer than he really needed, to try and figure out why they had Solo so interested.

"You never told me your name," Solo said, still looking at the photographs. There was a new stiffness to his stance, a rigidity that Illya wondered at - was it even possible that, despite his previous hedonistic tendencies, Solo was actually uncomfortable with Illya stood so close to him? "I knew it wasn't 'Curry'."

It wasn't the group photograph Solo was looking at, Illya realised, though that had been one of the pictures on this wall that had caught his eye. It was a candid shot that hung alongside it, Illya and another man, arms draped casually over one another's shoulders, both in fencing gear with masks pushed back on their heads.

"Under the other photograph, it says your name is Kuryakin. You fenced for Cambridge." 

Solo raised his hand, the tip of one finger moving lightly across the glass, along the line of a younger, happier Illya's jaw in a photograph from what seemed like another lifetime.

"Some people don't react well to a foreign name, Mr Solo," Illya said. "In any line of work." And particularly not when your line of work is protecting government secrets, given the uneasy alliance between those on the left wing and the Soviet government. Not to mention the fact that much of his time, and those of his colleagues in the Security Service, were focussed on those individuals and their contacts. He'd chosen a pseudonym for a reason, not wanting to stand out in his current line of work though he hadn't cared at all when he'd been the young man in the photograph.

It didn't escape his notice that Solo hadn't asked about the other man in the photograph, who he was or what their relationship was to one another, though the truth of it was probably clear enough to anyone alive to the possibilities written out in the way they stood together, how they touched one another with casual familiarity. Not that Illya was sure what he would have said if Solo had asked, if he'd be truthful or find a way to dissemble. It didn't feel like another lifetime, the life depicted there in black and white, but more like someone else's life altogether. Had he really ever been that young, that innocent?

"You looked happy," Solo said, turning as if to compare the man in the photograph to the one who stood just behind his shoulder. 

He should have moved, given Solo space, but for some reason Illya stayed where he was, allowing the casual brush of flesh against material, shoulder against chest, all the more intimate because it was unplanned, unexpected. 

"I was." And ignorant of the realities of the world, Illya's brain supplied, completing the sentence. "For what it's worth."

Solo's hand was raised and for a moment Illya wondered if he meant to mimic his earlier gesture, stroking that self-same finger along the jawline of the real man, as he had done with the one in the photograph. Illya moved quicker, though, catching his hand and pulling Solo round to face him fully. The American didn't resist, letting himself be turned, moved. 

"But not now," Solo said. He leaned forward, the movement closing the space between them, small as it was. "Why is that, Mr Kuryakin?"

Again it was Illya who moved first, reacting to the closeness without a second thought, his weight pressing Solo back against the wall. Solo's shoulders pressed against the wall, the framed pictures rocking unsteadily as he was pushed between them, their edges scraping his arms. 

"What do you want from me, Solo?" Illya asked, though he suspected he wouldn't like the answer. "I thought you were grateful to me for rescuing you, wasn't that what you said?"

Solo didn't resist, didn't push back or try to get away. Not that Illya would have tolerated that for a moment, though he was certain the American was strong enough to make holding him in place this way more difficult than he wanted, if he had a mind to do so. Illya's hands were warmed by Solo's skin, a familiar warmth even if he hadn't felt it in so long. Not like this, nothing other than furtive encounters, too fleeting to really satisfy. 

"Grateful enough to let you fuck me, if you like," Solo said, his smile growing when Illya froze, reacting to the unexpected vulgarity. "That's what you want, isn't it, Kuryakin?"

If he'd forgotten the previous night's dream, then the words would have brought it rushing back to his mind. Not that he expected the reality of sex with Solo would be much like what he'd imagined last night, given that the American seemed determined to play a much more active role, even if Illya would be the one on top. He had no intention of anything else taking place, not here and not now, and certainly not with a man he'd only just met. 

"I don't know where you've been," Illya said, though his erection gave a treacherous jerk at the thought of bending Solo over the nearest flat surface, regardless of hazard. "I could catch something."

Solo's smile disappeared, quicker than Illya could have thought possible.

\-----------------------

He regretted the words even before they were spoken, certainly long before Solo reacted to them as anyone with an ounce of self-regard would, no matter how they'd recently made their living.

"Get your hands off me, Kuryakin," Solo said, the words abrupt. "Now."

Illya had a pretty good idea what might happen next if he _did_ let go of Solo, visions of breaking glass and slamming doors, followed by a headlong rush into the street. The last thing he wanted was to put Solo in more danger by his own actions, if that danger existed in the first place, and he was hypocritical in the extreme to have used Solo's past against him like that. 

"You're right, that _is_ what I want," Illya said, even if he was uncertain where the need to be honest with this man came from. 

He could feel the tension in Solo's body, the rigidity of muscles under his hands, and was patently aware that the American could have tried to break free from his grip if he'd wanted to. And that he would probably succeed if he did so. Not that either of them would likely emerge from that disagreement without damage, even if Solo was suffering from the results of his recent privations. 

"Then let's get it over with." Solo's voice was like scrapings from a block of ice, each word bitten out and emotionless. "I owe you, so I guess it's time for payback."

It would have made an absurd tableau, the two of them pressed against the study wall this way, the heat of Solo's skin a counterpoint to the cold expression on his face, the chill of his words. That was the realisation that made Illya move in the end, pushing himself away from where Solo stood, back to the desk. He leant his weight on both hands, staring down at the fine morocco leather of its surface, his thoughts in turmoil. 

He could have done it so easily. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to take Solo at his word, exacting a carnal payment for the small kindnesses he'd shown the American. To make him into the very thing he'd accused Solo of being, even if he had previously managed to walk the tightrope of poverty and avoid turning that accusation into truth. Surely if there was a circle in hell reserved for traitors and turncoats there was also one reserved for those who committed an act like that?

Behind him, there was silence. He had expected to hear Solo leave, the study door closing behind him at least, if not more evidence that he'd overstepped the mark in more ways than he could possibly have imagined. Instead Illya knew if he looked, if he turned back to where they'd been standing moments before, Solo would still be there, expecting answers Illya might not ever be able to give.

“I should go.” 

Illya raised his head, not wanting to turn around, to see the expression he'd helped put on Solo's face, so he concentrated instead on the view from the window he now faced. At least it had stopped raining some time during the night, though the daylight was thin and unconvincing, the clouds threatening another downpour. 

“This was a mistake,” Solo continued, his voice calmer than Illya thought he would have been if their roles had been reversed. “I got myself into trouble, I can get myself out of it.” Without your help, the unspoken completion of that sentence, as clearly heard as if Solo had actually said it. “It won't be the first time.”

Bravado, now? 

“At least wait till your clothes arrive,” Illya said. He took a deep breath then turned to face Solo – he was still against the wall, the pictures having fallen back into place now he was no longer pressed there – was he waiting for some kind of permission to leave? “But you don't have to leave on my account.” The words came easier than he'd expected. 

“Don't I?” There was that tinge of bravado again in Solo's tone, a confidence that didn't quite make it to his eyes. “Like I said, I got myself into this mess...”

But how likely was that to be true? How much more likely, Illya wondered, as he watched Solo leave the study much more calmly than he could have expected only minutes earlier, was it that this had all started at a small south coast hotel, with a man coming under scrutiny for the company he kept?

\-----------------------

Solo was back on the couch once more, though understandably no longer as relaxed as he'd seemed before, staring into the fire unmoving while Illya collected the abandoned breakfast tray and returned it to the kitchen. As he made another pot of tea, weaker this time in sympathy with his guest's palate, Illya wondered just what was going through Solo's mind and why he hadn't left – it would have been the work of a few moments to find himself something to wear, even if that had required ransacking Illya's wardrobe and coat rack – but in some ways it was likely the answer was perfectly simple, that Solo really had no place to go. No place safe, anyway, if his story of being followed had any truth to it.

Illya's hand paused on the teapot lid, considering that for a moment as the heat of the heavy china warmed beneath this palm. He'd taken Solo's account at face value, trusting the other man when he'd called, for no reason he could possibly explain. 

This could all be one massive confidence trick, the aim of which would be what exactly? The production of blackmail material against Illya himself seemed an obvious possibility. But if that were the case, then why had Solo not been more amenable to whatever Illya might want from him? If that were his purpose they'd have been better served with someone more compliant, more willing to go along with whatever Illya might want, all the better to gain as much hold over him as any mysterious paymaster might possibly desire. No-one could possibly know Illya's tastes might actually run to prickly Americans with more pride than sense, could they? 

No, there was no reason to think Solo was lying about the tail, though the source of that unexpected interest in a penniless dancing partner was another matter. Since Solo didn't appear to have any ulterior motive for his presence in this country, bar the need to earn a living and a desire not to return to his homeland to do so, then it was much more likely _Illya_ had helped create the situation Solo now found himself in. He'd thought he and Slate had been discreet in their enquiries, that nobody had given their trip to the south coast any consideration, but it was more likely than not they had both been wrong about that – someone had noticed, someone who thought Solo had information he hadn't shared, information worth having. 

Information worth extracting from Solo by force? It was an occupational hazard, for those in Illya's profession, even if Illya himself had managed to avoid such situations to date, but the idea of an outsider, an innocent, getting drawn into that particular sordid aspect of the world he inhabited held little pleasure. Still, the fact they hadn't grabbed Solo so far could be a good sign, a sign they weren't quite certain if he did know anything worth the effort required to obtain it. A certainty that might be changed irrevocably now Solo had made contact with him, a known operative of the British government; that action could have raised the stakes immeasurably, for both of them. 

Too late to change that now, even if he wanted to, which Illya wasn't sure he did.

He couldn't say why he'd given the American his card in the first place, uncertain just what impulse had driven him to make that initial offer if not some kind of masochistic curiosity about just what he and Solo could be like, together in some way. The gesture was so unlike his usual way of doing things, the careful thought he'd usually give to any major decision – Illya had acted on impulse, not giving himself a chance to list the hundred reasons why it would be a bad idea, and that action had inevitably led to things as they currently were. 

He couldn't do anything about that now, since the facility to turn back time was something even the cleverest minds of the modern age had failed to create. 

Illya carried the tea tray into the living room. Solo was sitting on the chair by the fireplace, his hands busy stuffing newspaper into the shoes he'd been wearing the night before. 

“I hope you don't mind,” Solo said, looking up. “I thought they'd been in your tub long enough.”

Illya placed the tray on the small table beside where Solo was sitting, any answer curtailed by the ringing of his doorbell. 

“It's fine,” Illya said. “And that should be your clothes.”

Solo had turned his attention back to his shoes, putting them carefully by the fire to dry – not so close that the leather would crack, but close enough that they'd benefit from the warmth and hopefully be wearable again soon.

\-----------------------

The man on the doorstep was carrying a medium-sized suitcase, one that had clearly seen better days; Wilson had dressed the part for his trip to the East End, at least, though this was a man Illya had also seen looking very much the part in a bespoke tuxedo or equally at home dressed as a stevedore, so his appearance came as no surprise.

“Problems?” Illya asked, accepting the case. It was lighter than it looked, heavy card rather than leather, the corners battered. “This is everything?”

“The place had been tossed,” Wilson confirmed, touching his cap in a show of deference in keeping with his current role. “Seemed best to clear it out, just in case.”

Dismissing Wilson with a nod, Illya closed the door then carried Solo's case upstairs. It weighed hardly anything, not much to say for a human life even in these most difficult of times, but if Wilson said that was everything then he could be certain Solo had nothing to go back to his lodgings for. 

“Is that mine?” Solo asked, getting up. 

Illya handed the case over without a word, crossing to the table to pour himself a cup of tea. Behind him, he could hear the door to the bathroom open and then close again, imagined he could hear the sound of Solo dressing in the contents of the case and wondered whether it would be enough to be going on with. He could pay for clothes for Solo, just enough to tide him over while they figured out what was going on, but somehow Illya was certain even the offer to do so wouldn't be easily accepted. If their roles had been reversed, Illya all but penniless, he wasn't certain he would be much more gracious in accepting what could only be considered charity. 

Carrying the half-empty teacup, Illya returned to his own room and picked up his jacket. They needed to get out of here, to give the man Slate had stationed outside his flat the chance to scare up any tail, and the sooner they did that the sooner Solo could be out of his life. 

“Well?” The bathroom door had opened, Solo had emerged, even if Illya hadn't heard him till he spoke. “Do I pass muster?”

Illya eyed him up and down; in truth, it wasn't a great deal better than what Solo had been wearing the previous night, though clearly the suit was newer – poor quality, but at least in recent enough style to be going on with – and what was probably Solo's only other pair of shoes, if you didn't count the ones he wore when he was dancing for a living. He wouldn't risk those on pavement wear and tear, regardless of the lack of an alternative.

“You'll do,” Illya said, even though the urge was there to say more. Draining the cup he held, Illya wondered for a moment if he _could_ justify taking Solo to his tailor, just for one suit that didn't make him look like the mendicant he truly was. “Now let's get out of here.”

“I thought you'd never ask,” Solo said, placing an equally poor quality fedora on his head, before pausing on his way to the living room door. “I don't have another coat. Mine is still dripping in your bathroom.”

Illya walked over to the coat stand and rummaged for a moment, pulling out a dark grey overcoat he hadn't worn in a while. If nothing else, he could make sure Solo didn't catch his death, and if he 'forgot' to ask for the overcoat back when they parted ways it would be no great loss. 

“Anything else?” Illya asked, as acerbic as he could manage. Solo was just standing there, the overcoat in his arms and an unreadable expression on his face. Then, just as soon as it had emerged, that look was gone and the more familiar smart-alec look Illya was coming to know all too well took its place. “Then let's go.”


	5. Chapter 5

The man Slate sent was good, Illya would give him that. It had taken about 15 minutes from the time they'd left the flat before Illya spotted him, which gave him confidence that if there was another tail in place, as Solo claimed, there was more chance of Slate's man figuring it out than being seen himself. 

That meant he could concentrate on Solo, which was something of a double-edged sword – Illya wanted to know for certain if he could trust him, if this was all some almighty confidence trick, but on the other hand he wanted as little to do with him as he could possibly manage. To figure out what Solo was up to and avoid being caught up in it, if that were possible. To not make any kind of connection with the man that couldn't be broken in a heartbeat if his duty to King and Country required it. 

They could have taken a cab, of course, but since it wasn't raining – for once – Illya found it hard to justify that particular expense; he had to admit it, he liked to walk when he could. In Cambridge, of course, he'd cycled everywhere and no-one had thought anything of it. More eyebrows had been raised within college by the fact he preferred to fence rather than row, but even that hadn't caused much talk. Before that, growing up in a mixture of London town-houses and country estates, Illya had been used to being outside in all weathers and only his getting older had affected his attitude towards that. 

“We're here,” he said, when they turned the corner into the small street which ran down the side of one of the larger theatres. “And just in time for lunch.”

Illya pushed open the door, the smell of garlic and herbs immediately making his stomach respond with a growl. Behind him, he heard Solo's abortive snort of laughter at the sound, though his face betrayed no sign of amusement when Illya snapped a look back at him. Illya decided the best policy was to ignore it all, leading the way through to a booth towards the back of the restaurant.

Solo slid in opposite him, taking the seat which left his back to the rest of the diners without comment.   
Illya had been here often enough, one way or another, that the waiter didn't even bother to ask what he wanted, turning instead to present Solo with a menu and then disappear back to the kitchens – he returned a few moments later with a carafe of red wine and two glasses which he placed carefully onto the table between them. In the background, the telephone rang once, then again. 

“Sir?” Illya nodded, letting the proprietor place the telephone on the table in front of him and taking the proffered handset. “Get whatever you want,” he said, as the waiter returned for Solo's order. By the time the conversation was over, Illya flicking a glance to the proprietor who came and collected the telephone, smiling as he did so, Solo had handed the menu back to the waiter and was watching him once more. 

He seemed to have relaxed a little, which was good. Both of them had needed to get out of the flat, for more reasons than just to check whether or not Solo was being followed – the atmosphere there was too charged between them, far too claustrophobic, and Illya was glad of both the break from that and what he saw echoed in the posture of the man who now sat across from him. 

“Wine?” he asked, pouring a glass for himself. Solo shook his head. “Suit yourself.”

He drank, the roughness of the wine never quite expected, taking the opportunity to study Solo; the other man was now looking around the small restaurant, eyes taking in every detail of his surroundings. Illya wondered what the past months had been like for Solo, how he would have coped if their roles had been reversed and he'd been the one forced to find another way to keep himself alive. The thought of that made Solo's anger towards his current situation all the more understandable.

Illya wondered at the small spark of sympathy for the American that he found was lodged inside himself, despite his best efforts. It didn't pay to get attached, not in his line of work and certainly not for a man with his predilections. The combination of the two was potentially deadly, in more ways than one. Even in the relatively short time he'd been working for the British government, Illya had seen more than one man's career fall apart because of a single ill-chosen act – the threat of blackmail was always there, making it all but impossible for Illya to remain anything other than alone for the foreseeable future, since his own desires were anything other than straightforward. 

Not that he had any reason to think Solo would go along easily with whatever might be suggested to him, unless there was something in it for him. Illya had to admit that he'd gone beyond thinking this was likely to be one long confidence trick, but what was there for Solo in any kind of liaison beyond the obvious sating of physical desire? He was all but penniless, reliant on his own abilities and therefore more than likely to consider the financial advantages of anything he was offered – the legalities of the situation might not even enter into it, given his current state of affairs. He'd pretty much been selling himself to the moneyed women who spent time with him in his previous role, as Illya had no doubt Solo had accepted both gifts and cash in exchange for a little flattery and maybe something more...

Illya put down the glass, wishing he could stop this line of thinking as easily as that – what did Solo's choices have to do with him, anyway? The sooner the American was on his way, current situation solved safely and to everyone's satisfaction, the better for both of them. 

“There's no sign of a tail so far,” Illya said, when Solo's attention returned to him. “That was Inspector Slate, his man hasn't seen anything since we left my flat.”

Solo's face was unreadable, a perfect mask of almost-boredom. Underneath, Illya was certain, he was nothing like as calm. 

“I didn't imagine it.” Solo's voice was level, pitched low enough so they couldn't be overheard – there was an element of defiance in his tone, despite how quietly he spoke. “If that's what you're trying to say.”

“It's not,” Illya said. “What I _am_ saying is that there's nothing more to be gained from all this sneaking around.” He considered Solo for a moment, then decided to put all his cards on the table. “Your rooms had been searched. Ransacked might be a better description for it. The man I sent over for your clothes was sure about that.”

Their waiter approached, entrée plates and a basket of bread in hand, and the two of them fell silent as the dishes were placed before them. 

“Any idea what they might have been looking for? Or if anything was taken?” Illya asked, picking up his fork. “You didn't seem to have much. Wilson brought everything back that was left, in case you're wondering. ”

He regretted the words as soon as they were spoken, even before the angry flush appeared on Solo's cheekbones, and certainly long before the American spoke, his voice much calmer than Illya deserved. 

“Most of what I was given is currently spread between various pawnshops across the city.”

Illya turned his attention to his antipasti, hoping his silence was apology enough for the faux pas he had just committed. It was bad enough Solo was effectively a pauper without rubbing the fact in his face – no matter how much Solo put him off balance, there had been no call for that. 

“I can't see how any of it would be worth someone getting hold of, anyway,” Solo continued. Illya looked up from his plate, then took a piece of bread from the basket Solo was holding out to him. “It was all pretty generic, nothing to say who it was from in the first place. Which makes blackmail much more difficult, if that was their motive.” He stopped then, putting the basket down, his other hand tightening on the fork he held. “Except maybe the books.”

“What books?” Illya asked. He could almost see the thought process going on behind Solo's eyes, and for the first time found himself believing the American's story about his scholarly past. “Solo?”

“One particular benefactor,” Solo said finally, his voice still quiet. “She gave me a very nice and probably very identifiable set of books, German poetry to be precise, all calfskin and marbled endpapers.” He shook his head, looking more relaxed now – the colour had flooded back into his knuckles as his grip on the cutlery had eased. “I was never a major fan of Rilke but the lady in question, well I wanted to keep her happy.”

Illya nodded, using the piece of bread he had chosen to mop up the juices from his entrée. Solo had started eating again too, smiling to himself a little as if just the thought of some aspect of his former life was entertaining enough to consider for a moment's respite. 

“What happened to the books?” Illya asked, when Solo had finished as well and the plates had been whisked away. “They weren't in the suitcase.” They couldn’t have been, given its weight. 

“I sold them,” Solo replied. “A couple of months ago, little place near the British Museum gave me a decent price for them, which kept me in rent and food for longer than I expected.”

He didn't look embarrassed at that, just resigned – this was what Solo's life had become, just a few short years between living in scholarly comfort in Oxford and finding himself here, with only the contents of a suitcase and the clothes he stood up in to his name. 

Their main course arrived, saving Illya from once more saying something he might come to regret, or something that would further pique Solo's pride and the American tucked into it with gusto. After a few moments Solo seemed to realize he was the subject of scrutiny and looked up.

“What?” he asked, putting down his knife and raising a hand to his face. “Do I have something stuck in my teeth?”

“You eat like a European,” Illya said, for lack of something else to say. There were plenty of other things he could have said, but he was certain most of them would only lead to an argument somehow, as surely as he knew himself. “It's not been my experience with Americans.”

“Too many Formal Hall dinners.” Solo smiled, looking more relaxed than Illya expected at the comment, then picked up his knife once more. “I could have said grace in Latin too, if you'd asked.” 

“I had enough of that at Cambridge,” Illya replied, telling himself sternly that Solo's wider smile at his response was just politeness, nothing more.

\---------------------

Lunch concluded with tiramisu, along with Illya telling himself that he didn't _have to_ listen to the sounds Solo made when he licked the spoon clean, let alone imagine that those were the sounds he would make when enjoying himself in other ways that were less than legal. He made himself think about the books, considering the possibilities they represented, the reasons why they might be important to whoever it was that had been following Solo – the books themselves could be sufficient or perhaps it was something about them, something _within them_ that was important. As Solo himself had suggested, it could be as simple as blackmail and nothing more.

Once Solo had been forcibly separated from his dessert plate, with Illya determinedly not observing the way his eyes still followed the waiter who took it away, they left the restaurant. It was a matter of minutes before an unoccupied cab came along despite the appalling weather, destined to take the two of them in the direction of Great Russell Street and the bookshop where Solo had sold the books. 

“That's the one,” Solo said, when they arrived. Illya turned from paying the cab driver to the shop Solo indicated. “What do we do if the books are gone?”

“We try and persuade the proprietor to tell us who he sold them to and hope for the best,” Illya replied, heading into the bookshop with Solo at his heels. 

Inside, the smell of old leather and paper was enough to take Illya back to his time in university, the familiar aroma transporting him back to his college library in a heartbeat; from the small sigh he heard Solo make, he knew he wasn't alone in being affected that way. For Solo, of course, it might have been an even bigger pull towards a time when he must have been certain what his future held, never dreaming it could all go so far awry.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” They hadn't noticed the man appear, though he'd stepped out from among the shelves; one hand supported a pile of books with casual ease, the other raised to push down half-moon spectacles so he could peer over their rim. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“German literature in the original,” Illya said, not wanting to draw too much attention to the specifics of their search. There was no reason to think this man was in on whatever was going on, however it might also be safer for him in the long term if he knew as little as possible. “If you have any in stock.”

“ _Natürlich_ ,” the man replied with a small smile. “If you'd like to follow me.” He turned and walked a matter of a few feet, then gestured with his free hand towards the left hand set of shelves. “Not much call for German literature at present,” the bookseller continued. “No matter how nicely presented. If you don't find what you're looking for, I can always make some calls.” 

Solo's eyes were already intent on the shelves as he scanned them for the books he'd sold only weeks before. 

“Thank you,” Illya said. “We'll let you know.” The proprietor nodded, his attention clearly returned to the books he was shelving even before Illya had finished speaking. 

Illya crossed to where Solo stood, certain the other man had no idea he was there, given how focused he appeared. 

“Here.” Solo crouched, reaching out to one particular book which he plucked from the shelf, handing it to Illya even as he removed its companion as well and then straightened up. “These are the ones, I'm sure of it.”

Illya looked at the book – it was nicely bound and in excellent condition, just as Solo had described, but nothing about its outward appearance said there was anything special about it. A brief glance at the first few pages revealed it wasn't even a first edition and a quick inspection of the pages as a whole showed nothing else. 

“We should leave,” Illya said. He held out his hand and Solo placed the other book in it, following him back to the counter that stood just inside the door. 

“Did you find what you were looking for?” 

Illya nodded at the bookseller, placing the books carefully on the counter in front of him as he pulled his wallet from his inside jacket pocket. He'd lost Solo somewhere in the shop, he realised, which didn’t really come as any surprise – given his academic background, he was probably just as entranced by the contents of this place as Illya himself. 

“I'll be right back,” Illya said, handing over a five pound note. 

It took a few moments to figure out where Solo had gone, the shop more of a labyrinth of shelves and cubbyholes than it initially appeared. He'd almost expected to find Solo browsing the economics section, except that would probably be too painful a reminder of his past life and all that he'd lost – instead, Solo was studying a shelf full of fiction, his expression giving nothing away.

“If there's something you'd like,” he began, “or I have books at the flat.”

“What?” Solo turned, his face determined now. “No, I think you've done enough. Leave me some self-respect, Kuryakin,” he said, heading towards the front of the bookshop, straight past the counter and out through the door without looking back. 

It shouldn’t have been a surprise, not really – Illya was trying to be kind, not offer charity, but there was no way it couldn't be construed that way if Solo was feeling particularly on edge. With a shrug, Illya returned to the counter, collected his change and the books before bidding the bookseller a good afternoon. 

Outside, Solo was waiting by the curb. This in itself was almost a surprise – if he hadn't been able to see where the American was, Illya might have expected him to leave, except that he still had nowhere left to go. 

“Here,” Illya said, as he crossed to where Solo stood. “Make yourself useful and carry these.” He held out the books, Solo's hands coming out of his pockets to take them from him. Then Solo's eyes widened, looking at something over Illya's shoulder - as Illya turned to see what had caused that reaction, something struck his head and then everything went dark.


	6. Chapter 6

“...not to move too much.”

Solo's voice was unexpected, as was the pain Illya felt when he moved even slightly. He opened his eyes, reluctantly, to find Solo leaning over him where he lay – he was on the pavement, his shoulders on Solo's lap and one of the American's arms across his chest holding him in place. 

“What happened?”

“Someone hit you on the head, that's what happened.” Solo's face was pale, his mouth a thin line. “Can you stand if I help you up?” Illya nodded, then regretted the movement immediately. “Here we go.”

Solo was stronger than he looked, despite Illya's previous concerns about the meals he'd doubtless missed in recent weeks. A wave of nausea swept over Illya and he swallowed convulsively, desperate to keep his lunch where it belonged rather than spread across the pavement of Great Russell Street. 

“You should see a doctor,” Solo said, his arm still round Illya; its embrace was warmer and more reassuring than Illya really wanted to be the case.

“Home,” Illya replied as he stepped away from Solo, remembering in time not to move his head in any way, hopeful that his tone alone would endorse how adamant he was about this decision. His head felt like it was splitting apart, but that wouldn't change regardless of his location, so he'd much rather be somewhere familiar and have the doctor of his choice come to him. “Please,” he said, when Solo didn't respond – his expression alone told Illya everything he needed to know about his opinion on the matter. 

“Okay,” Solo said, half-turning to scan the nearby street for a cab. “If that's what you really want.”

The cab ride was everything Illya feared it would be, every bump and jolt sending spasms of pain through his shoulders and neck where he'd been struck. A sap of some kind, at least that's what he suspected had been used from the combination of Solo's description of the attack and the after effects he was feeling. Nothing broken, as far as he could tell, but no holiday for anyone concerned. If anything, it was no more than he deserved – he hadn't seen this attack coming, even though he ought to have expected it. 

“Aren't you supposed to stay awake, with a concussion?” Solo asked, when he had Illya settled in one of the armchairs and tentatively leant his head back, their negotiation of the stairs to Illya's flat now happily a fading nightmare of its own as he closed his eyes.

“I'm not asleep.” Illya opened his eyes reluctantly; as he'd expected, Solo was leaning over him, an anxious expression on his face. “The number is by the telephone.” He closed his eyes again – it was better than the way the world swam around him if he had them open, after all, particularly as his stomach still roiled in sympathy. Illya heard Solo leave the room, though his steps were as light as anyone might have expected from someone in his particular line of work, then the faint sounds of Solo's half a conversation by telephone and then nothing. 

He must have fallen asleep after all, Illya realised, as the next he knew was Solo shaking him – gently, he was pleased to see, the grip he had on Illya's shoulder had barely moved him but was still enough to rouse Illya to wakefulness. 

“Stay with me,” Solo said. “The doctor will be here soon and you need to stay awake at least till then.” 

“The books!” Illya said, suddenly remembering the errand that had taken them to Great Russell Street in the first place. “What happened, anyway?”

Solo stuck his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out one of the two volumes they'd bought. 

“The guy who hit you grabbed the other one when you dropped it,” he said. “He had a car waiting but by the time I reacted, you were already on the floor.” Illya held out his hand and Solo placed the book into it, then turned to take off his coat – he dropped it over the back of the couch, then crossed to where his shoes still sat drying. “I wouldn't be surprised if we get a visit, once they realise they realise they only have half the set, whoever 'they' are.”

It was a reasonable theory. Illya examined the book, anything to take his mind off the way his head was currently pounding. It looked ordinary enough, no obvious marks on the pages or flyleaf to indicate it had been heavily read, no notations he could see – there were other methods of writing, of course, but he didn't have the right chemicals to hand for a number of them, so those options would have to wait. 

“Aspirin?” Solo asked, seemingly pleased with the way his shoes were drying, as he was crouched by the fireside busily engaged in pulling newspaper out of their toes. “Or wait till the doctor gets here?”

“The latter,” Illya said. “Do you remember if anything was written in the other volume?”

Solo shook his head. 

“If there was anything written I don't remember seeing it.”

“Anything about the man who hit me?” Illya continued. 

Solo shook his head again, this time without looking up. His attention was focussed on the used newspaper, which he had balled up and placed on the fire. All Illya remembered was a blur of movement from the corner of his eye and it was perfectly reasonable that Solo hadn't put himself in harms way by tackling his assailant. Whether Solo saw it that way was another matter, of course – did he think he ought to have done more, was that what this sudden reticence was about? 

Illya heard the sound of the door to the street opening then closing, whoever had entered making no effort to disguise the fact that they were there. Solo straightened up from where he was crouched, taking a couple of steps till he had effectively placed himself between Illya and the door to the living room, even though Illya wasn't sure quite what he intended should happen next. Footsteps sounded up the stairs, again with no attempt to dissemble.

“Mr Curry?” 

Illya relaxed at the voice, though he could see that he was the only one – despite how his head currently pounded, he was still able to appreciate the tableau to which he now found himself witness, Solo standing guard over him and his assistant in the doorway. Before Illya could speak, though he wasn't sure which of them he would be reassuring, Miss Dancer had drawn her revolver and was aiming it at Solo. 

“That's enough,” Illya said. “Mr Solo, my assistant Miss Dancer.”

“Assistant?” Solo said, looking Miss Dancer up and down with what was clearly a practised eye. To her credit, Miss Dancer did not respond to his obvious overtures, other than by an almost imperceptible tightening of her lips. “Is that what we're calling it now?”

“Are you injured, sir?” Miss Dancer asked, turning her attention to where Illya sat, though her gun-hand didn’t waver. “If this _gentleman_ is responsible...” 

“Now wait a minute,” Solo began, taking an abortive step forward which ended when Miss Dancer brought up the end of the gun barrel slightly, as if reminding him of its existence and her being fully comfortable with the idea of putting a bullet in anyone she so chose. “I had nothing to do with that,” he continued, the tone a little more subdued. 

When Miss Dancer looked to him for corroboration, Illya nodded slightly, regretting the movement immediately. At his reassurance, she lowered the gun, un-cocking it before returning it to her purse. 

“Has the doctor been called?” she asked.

“He has,” Illya said, amused despite himself at the looks passing between Solo and Miss Dancer. It reminded him of nothing more than two cats in an alley, each sizing up the other as a possible opponent while pretending to take no notice of one another in the slightest. “I wasn't expecting you back so soon.”

“I've passed on everything to the Colonel and was able to get an earlier train,” Miss Dancer said, taking her cue from Illya's own lack of details. Solo wasn't one of them, they had no idea just who or what he was really loyal to, and Miss Dancer had been on an unrelated errand – infiltrating a group of Communist sympathisers in Manchester. “I'm sure he'll be expecting to hear from you too.”

That was an unnecessary reminder of his current situation, or at least the situation he'd been in when Miss Dancer had left for Manchester last month – while Colonel Waverley knew he'd been working on a number of matters, Illya had been unconvinced he'd made significant progress on any of them, at least until Solo had stumbled back into his life and brought chaos along with him. Still, even with only one of the books in his possession, Illya had more to report than he had previously, so a crack on the head wasn't necessarily a bad price to pay for something to tell the Colonel. 

“Once I've seen the doctor,” Illya said. He looked between Solo and Miss Dancer again, a tableau which was starting to lose its appeal. “And in the meantime,” he continued, “if Miss Dancer would like to make us all some tea...”

That request, no matter how politely couched, drew Miss Dancer's attention from Solo to Illya himself, as he'd expected it would. Only a slight shift in Illya's position on the couch, the smallest of exhalations in lieu of a groan, prevented her from turning the full weight of that scowl in his direction. 

“Fine,” she said, heading towards the kitchen, back stiff with all her unspoken disapproval.

“Another American?” Solo asked, when the door had closed behind her. He had some survival instincts after all. “You didn't tell her about the book.” He paused, looking down at Illya. “You didn't tell her anything. I thought you said she was your assistant?”

“Sit down, Mr Solo,” Illya said, suppressing a smile when Solo obeyed with unexpected alacrity. He clearly expected some answers, even if Illya was reluctant to give them. “It's an occupational hazard,” he began, “keeping things to yourself.”

“I know about keeping secrets,” Solo said, “even if you don't think I do.”

“Which is why you're here right now, sitting in my armchair, instead of in a hotel room or even a police cell.” He gave Solo a moment to chew that over, certain he'd spotted when the truth of that had been digested, even against the counterpoint of his pounding head. “Do me the courtesy of trusting that I know what I'm about. That I know what to say, and when, and to whom.”

“Okay,” Solo said, after a moment. From the kitchen, they could hear the clattering of cups and saucers; Miss Dancer was clearly taking out her pique on the items in question. “But I want something in return.”

“If it's in my power,” Illya said, wondering if he was about to enter into a deal with the Devil. He trusted Solo, probably more than he ought to considering their short acquaintance – trusted him with the secret of their shared proclivities, with the moments alone where they'd come a little too close to a line he wasn't sure he could ever allow himself to cross. “What is it you want?”

“I need to know what I've got myself messed up with,” Solo said. “I need you to be honest with me, no matter what.”

Solo's expression was unwavering, his eyes holding Illya's gaze as if searching for any hint of a lie. Illya considered his request for a moment – it wasn't too much to ask, all things considered, nothing more than a continuation of their current arrangement. And maybe this way, if Solo was still keeping something back, he might feel obligated to share it, in time. 

“I can do that,” Illya said, reaching out and taking the hand Solo extended to him, a pledge of honesty between them no matter what.


	7. Chapter 7

The doctor had come shortly after that, a man Illya had always trusted despite his brusqueness and lack of bedside manner, or possibly because of just those things. As Illya had suspected he would, the doctor had prescribed rest and a dose of codeine powder for the headache, apparently happy that no long term damage had been caused. Illya had been hesitant to leave Solo and Miss Dancer alone together while the doctor examined him and was almost surprised to discover them both apparently unscathed on his return to the living room – they seemed to have come to some kind of uneasy truce, Solo curled up in one of the armchairs with a book and quite obviously ignoring Miss Dancer completely. 

It had taken a little more effort to get rid of Miss Dancer altogether. She seemed unconvinced that Illya could survive without her – it was as if she was all but volunteering to guard him against Solo and Illya wondered just what it was that she knew, or suspected, about the American. 

It was no secret that Miss Dancer spent a significant amount of her free time with one particular Special Branch inspector and he had to consider the possibility that Slate had told her more than Illya would otherwise like about their trip to the South Coast. There were no rules, as far as Illya was aware, about fraternisation in its own right but the inappropriate sharing of information and the possibility of blackmail were other matters altogether. The last thing Illya wanted was to alienate Inspector Slate – the man was a useful ally, never asking too many questions, and Illya trusted him as much as he trusted anyone but himself – but there were such a thing as professional boundaries. 

By the time Illya had managed to persuade Miss Dancer to leave, Solo was clearly starting to flag as well, and it took little persuasion to retrieve the blanket he'd used the night before and return to the couch. He'd been asleep within moments, which probably said as much about his overall health as it did the activities of the day.

A couple of hours later, when he was still unable to sleep, Illya found himself resenting the American soundly. 

Against his better judgement, he was still chewing over the matter of Miss Dancer and Inspector Slate, wondering just what had been let slip in pillow talk between them. He found it hard to judge either of them harshly – in their respective lines of work it was hard to find someone to trust who you could actually be honest with. He had always wondered how some managed it, keeping their working life and all its secrets so segregated from whatever they had at home, and whether he would ever get a chance to see just what that was like. Unlikely, given just what it was he wanted from a partner, but that didn't stop him pondering the possibility at times; the world could change, he'd seen it happen before. 

The slight click of the latch on his bedroom door opening had him instantly awake, fully awake and reaching for the drawer beside his bed. A bar of light fell across the bedroom floor, the partly opened curtains admitting the orange glow of the street light – not enough to show detail but more than enough to see movement, certainly enough for Illya to aim by.   
“How's the head?” Solo asked quietly, from the doorway. He'd only opened the door a crack, leaving the bulk of it between him and Illya, which seemed like a sensible move on his part. 

“Still attached,” Illya replied, putting the Webley back in the drawer from which he had partway removed it. “Thanks to you.”

There was silence between them for long minutes, stretching almost to the point of becoming uncomfortable – Illya didn't move, waiting to see what Solo would do, which way he would jump. Finally, the door opened a little wider and Solo took a step into the room, still leaning against the door frame. 

“I don't think your assistant likes me all that much.”

“From the way you were both acting,” Illya replied, “I suspect the feeling is mutual.” He sat up a little, shoving the pillows up behind him so he'd be a little more comfortable for whatever-this-was. Late night soul baring discussions were not really part of his previous experience and the venue alone was enough to make him a little nervous about remaining in control of the situation. “I didn't see too much of your much-vaunted charm in action out there with Miss Dancer.”

“You want charm?” Solo said, taking a couple of steps closer. He was right at the foot of Illya's bed now, arms crossed on top of the bedstead – even in the dimness of his bedroom, Illya could see Solo's smirk from where he sat. “I've got charm enough to spare, Kuryakin, don't worry about that.” Solo cocked his head, apparently considering something. “You forget, Miss Dancer's not really my type.” The smirk had turned a little predatory now.

It would only take a word to get Solo in his bed. There for real this time, not the fantasy he'd conjured up of a pliant recipient but a flesh and blood participant in whatever Illya chose to do with him. To him. He wasn't sure whether that thought aroused or terrified him more and it was probably that indecision that kept him silent now, still under Solo's scrutiny. 

“That was meant to be your cue,” Solo said, after a further period of silence. “You ask me what my type is and...”

It would be so easy to stop the words, a sudden movement on Illya's part would cause the press of his mouth on Solo's, hands tightening on the American's arms where they rested against the walnut of the bedstead. Illya felt his fingernails dig into the palms of his hands as he clenched them tight; he felt like a bowstring drawn too tight. 

Solo's voice ground to a halt.

“I should go,” he said, voice quieter now. Solo left the room without a backward glance; Illya wasn't sure whether to be glad of that or not, uncertain of his own reaction if Solo had all but glanced over his shoulder, whether he would have pleaded for him to return, to join him after all.

\---------------------

Before he had finally fallen asleep, Illya had made one decision at least: if Solo didn't mention his abortive seduction attempt, then neither would he.

Solo was quiet that morning, all trace of the familiar attitude with which he faced the world erased for once – despite himself, Illya found he almost missed it, wondering just what the morning would have brought if he'd let himself weaken, if he'd let Solo share his bed? Would the American be all but unbearable, thinking Illya another notch on his metaphorical bedpost, or would there be a quieter smugness to him, one that spoke of possession?

He couldn't know, could possibly never know – the risks were too great, every side of this situation needing to be carefully considered – but he supposed there was a tiny kernel of possibility that things might turn out the way he would like them to be. 

In deference to his guest's taste-buds, Illya made this morning's tea a more normal strength, managing to suppress a smile when Solo looked sceptical before tasting it. 

“Time to look at the book,” Illya said, after they were both a little more awake and he had fortified himself with several cups of tea. He got up from the chair and led the way into his study. It still felt a little strange, allowing Solo in here, but there was little to be done about that; Solo had all but invaded every inch of Illya's territory in ways that could barely be described so what was one more infiltration? 

He'd left the book in there, though it had been a struggle for Illya not to go to it in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep – it was only the fact that he could have woken Solo that had stopped him in the end, feeling unable to face the American at least till the sun had risen. 

Taking a seat at the desk, Illya examined the book – a more careful scrutiny than the passing glance he had given it at the bookshop. It was the second of the two volumes, though his rusty German told him little more than that. No obvious marks on the pages – invisible ink, perhaps, that old stand-by of every schoolboy spy story? - or was it more simple than that, the book itself the basis for some cypher? 

“The lady who gave these books to you,” Illya began, without turning to look at Solo where he stood, ostensibly studying the university photographs that seemed to fascinate him so much. “Who was she?”

“You know who she was,” Solo said. “A certain lady I was told not to associate with, remember?”

There was something there, something not quite right about the way the paper lay inside the cover, Illya's fingertips feeling the slightest difference – he held the book to the desk lamp, seeing how skilfully it had been done, almost imperceptible.

“Fetch me the packet of razor blades from the bathroom, would you?” He didn't want to let go of the book, not till he knew its secrets, not even long enough for the journey to the bathroom and back. 

Moments later Solo was back by the desk, watching intently as Illya took one of the blades from its wrapper and carefully sliced along the edge of the pastedown where it met the spine. There was definitely something there, between the paper and the board; it took a moments' rummaging in the desk drawer to locate some tweezers, then Illya was able to carefully extract the insertion, a small rectangle of onionskin paper folded over once. 

“That's it?” Solo asked. Illya started a little; he'd all but forgotten the other man was there, so intent was he on the extraction of this treasure from its hiding place. “That's what almost got you killed and me hounded all over London?”

“That's it,” Illya confirmed, using the tweezers to unfold the paper. Opened out it was perhaps the size of half a postcard, the only markings on it a string of numbers written in pencil. “People have been killed for less.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the substantial delay in updating, hopefully this won't happen again...

It was quite possible, Illya thought as he studied the slip of paper, that this was all there was. Sheer luck that the volume they had managed to keep was the one containing a secret addition and that the entire thing hadn't been literally snatched from their hands outside the bookshop – it could also be just a part of the puzzle, necessary but not the entirety of the thing, and there was no way of knowing whether or not that was the case. Except that it didn't really matter; either way, they were still in significant danger from whoever it was who had been hot on Solo's trail all this time. 

“Now what?” Solo asked. It was all Illya could do not to react – he'd forgotten the other man's presence, an unexpected development, and to be perfectly honest he had no answer to the question. 

“I think it's time for me to report to my superiors,” he said. That would buy him some time, at least, and another perspective on the situation as a whole wouldn't go amiss. Illya got out his wallet and tucked the slip of paper away, glancing at the clock as he did so. “He'll be in the office by now.” 

Illya got up from the desk, conscious that Solo was following him into the living room. That was a problem – he couldn't take Solo with him to meet the Colonel but didn't particularly want to leave him here, unsupervised. Who knew what sort of mischief he could get up to on his own? Still, it wasn't as if he had much of a choice in the matter. 

“I won't be long,” Illya said, making a detour into his bedroom to put on some shoes. Solo was lurking in the doorway, his eyes intent, and Illya purposefully ignored him in favour of tying his shoelaces. “I'll bring back some lunch.”

“Fine,” Solo replied, turning on his heel and all but marching across to the sofa. He didn't look round when Illya left, ignoring him as completely as he'd done with Miss Dancer the night before.

\---------------------

Still uncertain he'd done the right thing in leaving Solo unchaperoned, Illya had only walked a few hundred yards down the road before he hailed a cab; he'd let the first two or three pass him by, before choosing to flag down this one at the last moment.

“Gower Street,” he said, shutting the cab door firmly behind him. 

As they pulled away from the pavement, Illya looked back to see if he was being followed but could see no sign of anyone tailing him. He'd made a conscious decision to leave the book behind, believing that the slip of paper was more valuable than the book itself, aware that someone might still make an attempt to get hold of it and Solo was the only thing now standing in their way. 

Illya considered the fact that he could phone the flat on his arrival at headquarters though he wasn't completely sure whether Solo would answer if he did. It wasn't something they'd discussed before he left to see the Colonel; Solo had clearly been unhappy about being left behind and he hadn't thought to mention it himself. 

Once at Gower Street itself, Illya was waved through by the one-armed veteran who manned the Security Service's front entrance, before heading deep into the bowels of the building itself. It wasn't the largest of establishments, nowhere near the numbers who had peopled it during the war, but that didn't diminish the importance of the work done under this roof. While he didn't particularly involve himself with discussions about the politics involved in keeping the Security Service up and running – that task was left in the able hands of their Director General, Sir Vernon Kell – it would be difficult for Illya to completely isolate himself from the day to day difficulties that the organisation faced. 

At least he'd been given the luxury of choice when it came to assignments, though how much this had to do with the man he was on his way to see was anyone's guess. With his particular background Illya could as easily have been sent off to B5(b), though it was possible his grasp of the language was outweighed by his White Russian origins, which made him an unlikely ally for the Soviet cause and therefore not the best choice to try and infiltrate that regime's supporters in Britain. All of that was moot, however, since the subject of a move to another section had never come up for discussion. 

Illya paused at the double doors that led into the Colonel's suite of rooms, straightening his tie as was always his habit on arrival there. There was something about reporting in that always reminded him of his days at Cambridge, as if he was being brought on the carpet to explain himself to the dons and would be found lacking, an uncharacteristic nervousness settling in the pit of his stomach no matter how many times this whole scenario played out. 

“Good morning, Miss Rogers,” Illya said, pushing the doors open and entering the Colonel's inner sanctum. 

Miss Rogers looked up from the file she was studying and gave Illya a terse nod. Truth be told, he was more than a little afraid of the woman, who had a reputation of giving no quarter where young agents were concerned; Illya himself had seen more than one recent recruit, still fresh from their Oxbridge years, reduced to a blushing and stammering mess by one of Miss Rogers' patented glares. 

“The Colonel was expecting you, Mr Kuryakin,” Miss Rogers said, turning a page. “Go on in.”

Illya passed by Miss Rogers' desk and a couple of strides later was pushing open the door to Colonel Waverly's office. The man himself was standing by a window, looking down onto Gower Street as he puffed on a pipe, and didn't look round as Illya entered the room. 

“I understand we have progress, Mr Kuryakin,” Waverly said, after he had taken a couple more puffs on his pipe and Illya had sat in silence, waiting for his presence to be acknowledged. “Miss Dancer seems to think that your American might know more than he says.”

Before Illya could answer, Waverly had crossed to his desk and sat, knocking out the contents of his pipe into an ashtray; as usual, it was already overflowing, the smell of tobacco permeating the room. It was a smell that always took Illya back to his own university years, remembering the first time he had met the Colonel, when he had been keen to serve his adoptive country with little idea of what precisely that service might entail. 

“Miss Dancer is wrong about Solo,” Illya said, choosing to address that issue first.

He could hear the vehemence in his voice as he spoke and though Waverly didn't look up from where he was filling his pipe, he knew the Colonel could hear it too. He was about due for a lecture anyway, Illya decided, and if it wasn't to be on the subject of trusting Solo more than he ought, he wasn't certain what areas Waverly might touch upon instead. If there was one thing to be said about the Colonel, he didn't like his operatives to be over-confident and felt a regular dressing-down was what the doctor ordered for that particular complaint. 

“In fact,” Illya continued, deciding he might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb, “it could be argued that Solo has all the makings of a potential operative, rather than being the risk that Miss Dancer appears to think.”

“Hmm.” Waverly lit his pipe. “A risky business, employing foreign nationals.” 

Illya looked down at his hands, which were in his lap, fingers twisted around each other and white-knuckled. It seemed ironic in the extreme that Waverly would choose to lecture him, a child of Russia, about loyalty and how easily it might be bought – a glance up made Illya relax, seeing a glint of humour in Waverly's eyes.

“However,” Waverly said, “I will take that recommendation under advisement, provided this current situation is concluded successfully.”

Illya nodded, pleased with the outcome, which was more than he'd considered likely – it had come to him in the cab ride to Gower Street, the idea of Solo as an operative, and the more thought he gave the matter, the more sensible it seemed. Assuming Solo's loyalty could be assured, of course.

“And the other matter?” Waverly asked. 

“In hand,” Illya said. Reaching into his jacket, Illya removed his wallet and teased out the piece of onion skin, then leaned forward to place it on Waverly's desk. “This was in one of the books Solo sold, part of a gift from one particular admirer; we only have the one book so it's not clear if this is the entire thing or just a part of a larger puzzle.”

The Colonel had retrieved a magnifying glass from a desk drawer and examined the fragment of paper for a few more moments before pushing it back towards Illya. 

“You may as well keep that, Mr Kuryakin,” he said. “After all, in the absence of more information it's practically useless on its own.”


	9. Chapter 9

Conscious of his promise to return with food, Illya made a detour via the local grocer and picked up some ham, then bought a loaf of bread from the bakery next door. He didn't have much food in the flat, but that was no reason not to be a good host to Solo – yesterday's Italian meal had been a good idea, since the man could clearly use a little fattening up, but regular good quality food should soon put a little padding on those too-sharp bones. 

The first inkling Illya had that something was wrong was at the door into the living room, which stood ajar, offering a glimpse of the room beyond. Inside was silent, the contents of a vase of flowers sprayed out across the floor in a shrapnel of glass fragments, water still pooling on the floorboards. He should have taken his gun, even on a routine trip to report in; Illya realised it was still tucked away in the drawer of his bedside table only when his hand came up instinctively to where it should be and found nothing there. 

If there was anyone in the living room, they knew he was there now – Illya hadn't called out as he climbed the stairs but he had also made no effort to conceal his presence. He listened for a moment but heard nothing, no sign of life in the room beyond, which made up his mind that going in was the only choice he had.

Illya carefully put down his packages before flattening himself against the door frame as much as he could, though he knew it wouldn't provide much shelter if the intruders were armed, then pushed open the door. 

There was less mess than he had expected; the vase he'd seen had clearly impacted with one of the pictures on the wall, which hung askew, while one of the armchairs had slammed back into a bookcase and scattered its contents across the nearby rug. There was no blood, at least, but no Solo either. 

Illya headed straight to his bedroom, pulling out the bedside drawer – the comforting weight of his Webley fit into his hand as if it had grown there. Reassured by that, he searched the rest of the flat but found no sign of Solo anywhere. His study had been searched, expertly so, with minimal disruption if he hadn't been aware of the exact placement of every item on his desk and elsewhere and thus able to spot anything out of place. It was easy to guess what had been the prize they sought, however; a slip of paper that currently resided in Illya's wallet, if he didn't miss his guess. 

Illya went back into the living room, leaning his weight on the back of the couch as he considered his next move. He'd been so sure that Solo was an innocent in all of this – at least as innocent as Solo himself could ever be – the mess left behind seemed to support an abduction but it was equally possible Solo had already left the building before whoever-it-was had arrived to search the place. The damage done could just as easily be born of frustration as a minor scuffle, with Solo long gone of his own accord. 

It wasn't a comforting thought, not when Illya had vouched for Solo to the Colonel, planting the seed of an idea he'd only just begun to consider, the possibility that Solo's obvious intelligence and other skills could be valuable to the Security Service. If only he could be trusted, as Illya had started to trust him, almost despite himself. 

Illya glanced around, wondering how he could tell what had really happened, then remembered he'd left much of what Solo had originally been wearing to drip in the bathroom. He'd searched that room too, when he'd been checking his intruders weren't still lurking somewhere, but hadn't paid much attention to the contents of the bath tub. Going in, he wasn't sure whether he was relieved to find that Solo's much-worn overcoat was still there, still damp; so too was the one Illya had lent him the day before, still hanging on the coat rack where Solo had hung it up when they'd come back from the Italian restaurant. The presence of both seemed to confirm what he had suspected – hoped, even? - that their unwanted visitors had taken Solo with them when they left.

\---------------------

When the phone rang, it took a moment for Illya to react, looking for somewhere to put the pile of books he'd been gathering from the floor – the bookcase had come off worse than he'd thought, one shelf broken beyond repair.

“I hear you had some visitors,” Inspector Slate said, when Illya answered, not bothering with any kind of greeting. “Lost something too?”

“I don't suppose you know where they went?” Illya asked. He probably should be annoyed that his flat was being watched, seeing that as a sign he wasn't trusted, but that depended on whose idea it had been – if it was Slate's men, he couldn't be certain it wasn't solely Miss Dancer's plan, rather than anything showing that the Colonel thought he was unreliable. “Since I've been so careless.”

“Sorry. My men followed them all the way to Southwark but lost them somewhere in the docks. Whoever they are, they're pros.” 

Illya bit back a few choice words, both English and Russian; it wasn't Slate's fault he'd left Solo on his own, rather than making him tag along to Gower Street. That would have been safer, not to mention possibly impressing on Solo the seriousness of their situation, which Illya still wasn't sure he grasped. Nothing to be done about any of that, though, in the absence of a time machine. 

“Let me know if you hear anything?” Illya said, then hung up. If a lack of telephone etiquette was good enough for Special Branch, it was good enough for him too. 

Once he'd cleaned up, piling books in a corner for lack of shelf space, Illya retrieved the makings of his and Solo's lunch from the hallway and made himself a sandwich. It felt callous, but there was nothing more he could do right now, nothing that not eating would help anyway. 

He was midway through it when he spotted the book; perched as it was on the arm of the couch, it had clearly not got there during the scuffle between Solo and the intruders, so it had to be something Solo had been reading when they interrupted him. Curious, Illya put down his sandwich and walked over to the couch, picking up the book. 

It took a moment for Illya to recognise it – the volume he held was the one that had been taken from them, the one stolen from his very hand outside the bookshop. He opened the front cover and then the back, running the tips of his fingers over the pastedown, but there was nothing underneath. 

In the confusion on the pavement of Great Russell Street, Illya had somehow managed to hold onto the volume that held a secret, completely by chance. It could just as easily have been the other way around, the slip of paper Illya currently had lost forever and no reason for Solo to be abducted as a bargaining chip, which he surely was destined to be, whenever the intruders made contact. Hopefully soon, as Illya didn't much like Solo's chances of survival given his propensity for trouble if matters dragged on too long. 

Illya closed the book again, weighing it in his hand and wondering just why it had been left behind. It clearly had no value in itself but had to be a message; opening it again, Illya riffled through the pages, getting only partway through before a small piece of paper drifted to the floor. 

_You have something that belongs to us. St Olav's at midnight, come alone._


End file.
